by Carrie Elks
Maybe it's the fact I'm still half asleep, but this whole conversation seems slightly off kilter; the kind of inane, incomprehensible words you'd hear in a dream. I have to remind myself this is reality, that Alex is asking me to go upstairs with him, and that David is offering me a refuge.
I have no bloody clue what to do.
I should go back up. Explain calmly and quietly about my possible diagnosis, suggest we both take a breather from accusations and yelling. But a part of me wants to crawl back into David's bed and bury my head beneath the duvet, because I want to block it all out.
“Thank you for letting me use your bed,” I tell David. “I haven't slept so well in ages.”
“Anytime.”
“But I'll go back upstairs with Max. I need to get my stuff ready for work tomorrow.” When I reach the buggy, Max is awake, playing with a little hanging toy I've clipped to the frame. His breathing sounds better and he doesn't look as miserable as before. In fact, as soon as he sees me he smiles. It feels like a break in the clouds, a blast of warmth on a snowy day. I crouch down and nuzzle him, rubbing my cheek against his. He makes a grab for my hair and giggles.
This is what it's about. Not the arguments, or the depression or a possible tour halfway across the world. Nothing else really matters except Max being happy and healthy. “Come on, little man. Let's take you up and get you bathed. Get that disgusting crust off your nose.”
He burbles something incomprehensible and pulls at my ear.
“I'll do his bath,” Alex says. “You can put your feet up and watch some telly.”
Um, who is this and what has he done with my husband?
“Okay?” It comes out as a question.
“See you later, David.” From the tone in Alex’s voice I can tell things are still frosty between them.
David doesn't reply, walking over and rubbing Max's head. “See you later, little fella.” Then he pulls me up, giving me a quick hug. “If I hear any shouting I'll be up in a shot,” he whispers in my ear.
“There won't be, not from me, I'm too tired.”
“It's not you I'm worried about.”
As he still holds me, I look over his shoulder, catching Alex's eye. His jaw is tense, his lips a bleached, pale line, and I can tell how unhappy he is about this situation. But instead of pulling back like I normally would, I squeeze David tighter, because he was here for me when I needed him, and I'm so grateful for that.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his shoulder. “For everything.” I step back and grab my bag, following Alex as he pushes the buggy out of David's flat.
He doesn't even bother to say goodbye.
12
Alex can be ruthlessly efficient when he wants to be. As soon as we walk into the flat he deposits me on the sofa, shoving a cup of tea into my unsuspecting hand, and tells me to stay there or else. Then he proceeds to bath Max, tidy the kitchen, and give him his final feed all while I stare on with something close to disbelief. Max seems similarly gobsmacked, looking curiously at Alex as he holds him in his arms.
If I'm being really honest, I don't like him taking over. I miss snuggling up with Max, watching his rosebud lips move rhythmically as he sucks at the bottle, seeing his pale grey eyelids slowly flutter closed when he finally gives in to exhaustion. I wonder if Alex feels this pang of jealousy whenever he watches the two of us. Max is a fickle little thing, willing to batter his eyelashes at whoever happens to be in control of his milk.
After putting Max to bed, Alex heads into the kitchen and grabs a beer from the fridge. “You want one?”
I'd kill for a glass of wine, but it's a mood enhancer for me. Great when I'm feeling full of the joys of spring. Right now? Not such a good idea. “No thanks.”
“A glass of water?”
Now I'm confused. Since when did I become the water guzzling type? Is it something I should be doing now I'm a mum, along with shedding the final few pounds and remembering to do my kegels every day? “I'm fine.”
He sits down on the battered leather easy chair across from me and takes a long gulp of beer. His Adam's apple bounces up and down as he swallows. When he puts the bottle on the scratched wooden table beside him, he looks at me. “So what did the doctor say?”
“He thinks I have mild post natal depression. I have to go back again next week. If things haven't improved he wants to talk about happy pills.”
Alex's eyes widen. “Seriously? It's that bad?”
“Not at the moment. But he's worried it could get worse.”
His face crumples, and he takes another swig of beer. “How bad can it get?”
For a moment I consider telling him about puerperal psychosis, about the women who are locked away to protect themselves and their babies. But he looks shocked enough as it is, and no matter how fed up I am with this whole situation, there's no point in making it worse.
“I don't know. But the big thing is identifying it. Now I know I can work on things.”
“I guess that explains some stuff.”
I can feel my blood pressure rising; there's no way he's going to blame all our problems on this. The PND didn't make him smoke weed when he promised not to and it didn't force him to sign up for a three month tour in another country without even consulting me. I open my mouth to let it all out and then...
I close it again. No shouting; I promised David. Anyway, I'm so tired, I don't know if I have the energy to stand my ground. Instead I sit there, staring down at my knees, wondering how the hell we got here.
A little over six months ago I was lying on an uncomfortable hospital bed in Hackney, watching Alex holding a bundled up Max in his arms, tears pouring down his cheeks. And despite all the pain and the mess and everything else that comes with a ten hour labour, I can remember thinking how completely perfect everything was for us.
We had a healthy baby, a good, strong marriage, and I honestly didn't think anything would threaten that.
How can things change so drastically in such a short time?
“I'll call Stuart,” Alex says.
I look up at him questioningly. What does Stuart have to do with this? “Why?”
“To tell him I'm pulling out of the tour.”
My first thought is, hasn't he done that already? After last night and all the painful arguments we had, why the hell hasn't he already considered this? And it comes to me, a little flash of insight. He didn't pull out of the tour this morning because he doesn't want to. The only reason he's thinking about it now is because I've got an actual medical diagnosis.
He's acting from guilt, not concern.
“No.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean don't cancel. Not because of this. I can cope without you.”
He looks shocked. I don't blame him, I'm pretty surprised myself. “I can't go, not when you're like this.”
“Like what?”
“You know, all upset and sick and stuff.”
I want to throw my hands up in despair, so I sit on them instead. “What's changed since yesterday?” I ask. “I was upset yesterday. I didn't see you running to call Stuart then.”
“I spent the night at his place. We talked about whether we should tour or not. But now... what if you get worse? What if you're too sick to look after Max?”
“The only reason you've changed your mind is because some doctor has written something down on my record. I'm still me. The same Lara as last night.” I'm frustrated because he isn't getting my point. I don't want him to change his mind because of me.
I want him to not want to go.
Yes, it's a petty distinction, but it's important to me.
He drains the last of his beer, and I can tell from the way his hand shakes he wants another. I'm regretting avoiding alcohol myself.
“I can't win, can I?” His voice is quiet. “I’m damned if I go and I'm buggered if I don't. There's literally no pleasing you.”
My throat constricts. He's right, of course. We've got to the point where neithe
r of us can turn around, but we can't go forward either. Somehow we've managed to tie ourselves in knots. And it hurts, because I love him, I want him to be happy. I can't see a solution where all of us get to be that way.
“You should go. If you stay, you'll blame me and I'll blame myself.”
“And if I go, you'll blame me,” he points out.
“Yes, but I like that option better.” I deadpan it, but he smiles anyway.
“I don't know, babe.” He sits back, pulling at the foil on the neck of his bottle. “I hate to say it but it's your call.”
But it's one I don't want to make. I can't win either. If I say stay, it will kill him. If I tell him to go, it will kill me.
“You should go. You want to, I know you do.”
“I'm sorry,” he says softly, not trying to deny it.
Maybe that's the problem. We're both sorry, yet somehow we can't seem to do anything about it. He wants what he wants and I do, too. The difficulty is our wants are too far apart. The distance growing with each passing moment.
“So am I.”
So that's it. He's going to America and I'm staying here and I have no idea where that leaves us.
* * *
As it turns out, it takes a lot of effort to get ready for a three month tour. I was expecting the rehearsals—they've been part of my life for longer than I care to admit—but there's a hundred other things to do as well. Time-consuming things like queueing up at embassies for work visas and arranging for import licences, as well as transportation for all their instruments and equipment. There are roadies to recruit and sound mixers to talk to, not to mention packing enough clothes for the tour. I watch Alex getting more excited by the day, his hard edge becoming more apparent than ever, as Max and I try to get on with everyday life.
It couldn't be more obvious that our paths are diverging. I go to work, to the nursery, cry my heart out at the self-help group I’ve started to attend and Alex doesn't even notice. He's too busy choosing shirts to wear on stage and breaking in three different pairs of shoes.
He's coming together and I'm falling apart. If I had any energy left, I’d be angry about it.
The following Tuesday I go to my first PND support group meeting. I don’t know what I was expecting it to be like, but I’m surprised when I hear that our group of six will be meeting at the local park. I push Max’s buggy through the gates, scanning the greenery, looking for women who are crying and screaming at their babies, but see only a serene group of mums standing near the duck pond.
As I get closer, they notice me, and a dark-haired woman steps out from the group, smiling at me. “Lara?” she asks.
I nod, feeling uncertain. They all look so… normal. Surely they can’t be feeling the same turmoil inside that I am?
“I’m Diane, it’s lovely to meet you. Come and join us. We’re going to take a walk around the park, and then grab a coffee from the café. Let me introduce you to everybody.”
In the hour that follows, I learn that our depressions run the gamut from mild to severe. There’s a quiet twenty-something with a two year old strapped in his buggy who has had to be hospitalized due to her illness. She was only released a few weeks ago.
Another mum, a lady called Debbie, chats to me as we walk behind the group. “How long have you been diagnosed?” she asks.
“About a week.” I feel like an imposter compared to some of the others. “My doctor referred me to the group.”
She smiles. “That’s good, they caught you early. They had to put me on medication straight away when I finally admitted how low I was. I’d kept it bottled up, I was so scared they were going to take Maisie away from me.” We both look down at her daughter, who is fast asleep in her pram. “I wish I’d gone sooner, it would have made all the difference.”
We reach the edge of a copse of trees. The path snakes through them, and we twist and turn to follow it. “My husband’s leaving for a few months,” I tell her. “I think that’s when I reached breaking point.”
“How come?”
I explain the situation to her, feeling more relaxed as she nods and consoles, never once judging either me or Alex for the way we’ve been behaving. By the time we get to the café, the others are already ordering from the hatch that serves the outside tables. I buy myself a latte, then join the rest of them as we sit at the metal tables, circling the buggies around us.
“Anybody want to tell us how their week went?” Diane, the support-worker asks.
Debbie starts, sharing that her medication is being reduced and that the doctor is happy with her progress. I sit back and listen, occasionally rocking Max’s buggy when he starts to rouse, and it feels good to know I’m not alone in this fog of depression. Though I know it’s a long road, and there are no easy answers, somehow it helps to understand that I don’t have to do this by myself.
By the time the hour is up, and Max and I are heading for home, it feels like I’m able to breathe again.
* * *
Two days before Alex is due to leave I'm in the kitchen, warming up some puréed vegetables for Max, who is sitting in his highchair and banging his spoon on the blue plastic tray in front of him. He looks delighted at the racket he's making, and every now and again he throws the spoon to the floor, squealing loudly until I pick it up again.
When the buzzer sounds, I frown and immediately look at my watch. It's almost six, too early for Alex who isn't due back from a meeting until half past seven, and David always knocks, living in the same building and all.
“Don't move,” I say to Max, who completely ignores me. Then I ping off the microwave and make my way to the intercom, half-tripping over a box full of music sheets. Our entire flat is full of equipment for the tour. The couriers are due to pick it up in the morning, ready to fly everything out to the States. Walking across the living room has turned into some kind of physical challenge.
“Stuart?” I'm surprised when he gets to the door after I've buzzed him in. What's he doing here? Surely he should be at the same meeting as Alex. He is, after all, the drummer. “Alex isn't here...” I make a face.
“I know.” He takes his cap off and runs his fingers through his hair, shifting uncomfortably. “I wondered if I could have a quick word.”
I've known Stuart as long as I've known Alex, though as an acquaintance more than anything else, yet he can’t bring himself to meet my eyes.
“Of course,” I clear my throat, feeling as out of place as he does. “Please come in. Mind the boxes and stuff.”
“Christ, I'm surprised it all fits.” He walks over to the huge black cases containing his drum kit. Runs his fingers down the thick plastic. “Make sure they take care of it when they pick it up.”
“I'll be at work.” That's Alex's job. I may have agreed to him going but that doesn't mean I'm going to make life easy.
“How is work?” Stuart tugs at his shirt, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “You enjoying being back there?”
I shrug. “It's fine.” I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to hear about my day. In fact I still can't work out why he's here at all. But being me, I'm not quite sure how to ask him. “Would you like a cuppa? I was about to feed Max.”
His eyes widen in alarm and I suppress a laugh.
“Not that sort of feeding. Vegetables.” I grab the bowl from the microwave and wiggle it about.
“He can eat food?”
I nod. Despite being Alex's friend and band mate, Stuart hasn't seen a lot of Max. The only time I remember him holding him was when Max was about two months old. He'd looked so uncomfortable I'd taken pity on him and scooped Max from his arms. As I recall, Stuart thanked me under his breath.
“Yeah. We'll have him on curry next.” It's no joke, either. I'm determined to introduce him to a variety of foods. I don't want him to be a fussy eater.
After I've fed Max and he's on the floor, I hand Stuart a mug of tea and we manage to find a spot to perch on the sofa. I take a sip while Stuart taps out a tune with his foot, and I not
ice him stealing glances at me.
Finally, he clears his throat.
“I... ah... Alex said you hadn't been well.”
I feel a flush creep up my chest. “Did he?”
Stuart slumps back in his chair. “Yeah. I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Okay...” I still don't have the slightest hint of where this is going. All I know is it's awkward as hell.
“But you're better now, right?”
For the first time, he holds my gaze. I hadn't noticed how steel blue his eyes were before. I have noticed that they always seem rimmed with red.
“Not exactly,” I say. “I'm having good days and bad days. The doctor says it will take a while for things to calm down.”
Stuart nods rapidly while I tell him this. His fingers are tapping out a beat on his mug, now. “But you'll be okay while Alex is away?”
I soften. His question is kind of sweet, in a weird way. “I'll be fine. I've got my friends and family to take care of me. Not to mention being busy at work and with Max.”
A smile pulls at his lips. “That's good, right?”
“Sure.” It's been great, actually. Everybody's rallied round since I told them about my depression. The first weekend Alex is away I'm going to visit my dad. A few weekends after that, Tina's organised a big family picnic. I may be a lot of things while he is on tour, but bored isn't likely to be one of them.
“So, I wanted to ask you a favour. Actually the whole band does.” He puts his empty mug on the coffee table. “Alfie, too,” he adds.
“What sort of favour?” I ask, imagining taking delivery of stuff, or taking care of their girlfriends.
“It's about Alex, really. You know what he gets like before a gig? All angry and wound up? Well, I'm guessing he's going to be like that constantly while we're on tour.”
I swallow nervously, saying nothing. In spite of the sugar, the tea leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
“Well, I know what you two can be like. When you...” He trails off, tugging at his hair. “When you, um, rile him up, there's no getting through to him. And that will be a real nightmare for us all.”